


a thief in the night

by brookethenerd



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: The reader grew up with Spencer Reid, but after accepting the job at the BAU, he disappeared. Four years later, the reader gets a call(aka Spencer needs a babysitter to keep him from using, plenty of awkward tension, and an eventual happy ending)*takes place after 2x15 after the kidnapping/rescue*
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 97





	a thief in the night

**Author's Note:**

> s2 was literally over ten years ago but! im rewatching during quarantine and its not like I have anything else to do! why not rewrite and finish a fic I started years ago!

The phone call is rushed, and Spencer’s mother speaks half in a panicked ramble, but you understand enough to gauge the situation: something happened to Spencer. He’s in the hospital, and he’s sick or hurt or something along those lines, and she can’t go see him.

There is no one else. Not Spencer’s father, no other relatives. They all fell away or walked away years ago. The only person left is you. Not technically family, but the closest thing to it.

You’re not even sure they’ll let you into his room: if he’s in the ICU, it’s family only, and the blood that runs through your veins isn’t his. While you may have been in Spencer Reid’s life long enough to be considered family, no sheet of paper or ID will prove that.

You just have to hope that Diana hadn’t left out anything too important; you have to hope the hospitalization isn’t severe. But with Diana, you never truly know.

Luckily, he’s in a regular hospital room, and a nurse sends you down the hall, your sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. Patients and nurses flutter about the halls, but you slip quickly past them, caring about nothing but seeing him with your own eyes. Making sure he’s okay. Safe.

You try not to think about the last time you spoke to him, about the thin smile and tight words you only realized later were his version of goodbye.

It’s been four years since Spencer left for his new job. Four years since he walked away without any path for you to follow. Four years since you’ve heard his voice or seen his face.

The door to his room is open, and you tug the curtain aside to reveal a room full of suits blocking your view of the bed. They’re official, rigid, all tightly wound, and not one of them looks thrilled at your entrance.

“Sorry,” you say, “I must have the wrong room-” One of the men shifts, revealing the man in the bed.

 _Spencer_.

Before you have time to think about how _stupid_ rushing a hospital bed while surrounded by some kind of government officials is, you’re pushing past them to the bed, stomach crawling up to your throat, vision tunneling.

“Miss, I need you to back away-” A cold voice warns. Everyone in the room moves at the same time, on the defensive, and though you can’t be sure, you’re pretty sure the safety on a gun clicks off, but none of it stops you; none of it slows you down.

Last time you saw Spencer Reid, he was still a boy, gangly and young. He’s undoubtedly still gangly, but he’s grown into his form more. He’s older, hair a little longer, features more weathered. He looks pale, sick, like a ghost in the bed, but he’s still Spencer. Not _your_ Spencer - not anymore - but Spencer.

“Spence,” you say softly, dropping into the chair beside the bed, taking his hand in yours. Even limp, his hand in yours is so familiar, still so familiar, it makes your stomach twist.

“Stand down, guys,” one of the men behind you says. You don’t look back, but sense the shift in the mood, the relaxation of the men and women in the room. Pausing to take one more look at Spencer, you stand and turn, scanning the unfamiliar faces and trying to decide who is in charge.

A middle-aged man with what seems to be a perpetual frown and dark hair. Possible, with his confidence, but he’s too young. Same for the dark-skinned man who called for the others to settle; he’s on edge, appears to let his emotions drive him a little more than he likes. You play this mental game with them all, remembering hours and hours of listening to Spencer talk about how to read people.

You settle on an older man in the back, his lips pulled in a thin line. The way the others move around him, shifting toward him to listen, always observing. He’s the man giving orders, whether it’s official or not.

“What happened to him?” You ask. The man looks almost amused that you singled him out.

“Three weeks ago, he was taken hostage by a man named Tobias Hankel. Dr. Reid was forcefully injected with the painkiller, Dilaudid.”

“Is this some kind of relapse?”

“We weren’t even aware of any addiction,” says the middle-aged man with the scowl. There’s a hint of blame in his voice, though it’s directed at himself.

“How do you know Re- _Dr_. Reid?” Asks a blonde woman with interestingly cropped and dyed hair and clothes that don’t match, but work anyway. Your heart skips a beat. Dr. Reid. Your Spencer, the Spencer you grew up with, being referred to as such by people of their stature. A wave of happiness rolls through you, leaving just a tinge of sadness in its wake. Hearing someone else refer to him like that, to see that he’s made it where he wanted to go, makes your chest ache.

“We…we grew up together. We were…” You stop, unsure of what to call it. What to call the thing you and Spencer Reid used to be.

Your name comes from behind you, paired with someone’s fingertips grazing your wrist before falling away. All attention snaps to Spencer, and you whirl, dropping onto the edge of the mattress without a thought. The room is full, but Spencer’s eyes are locked solely on you. Wide, red-rimmed, with furrowed brows. He’s out of it, but just coherent enough to recognize your face.

“Psychosis is defined as a loss of contact with reality, typically including false beliefs about what is taking place and seeing and hearing things that are not there,” he says, voice rough and raw. It’s been so long since you’ve heard that boy - that man - spout facts, it makes the ache in your chest press harder. You’ve missed him, god, you’ve missed him.

“You’re not hallucinating,” you say. “It’s me, Spence.”

“You say that every time.” His eyes glaze over, gaze falling away, lids closing. You push to your feet, clenching your teeth so tightly you fear they’ll chip.

“How about we step out into the hall?” Asks the older man, though it’s not a suggestion. You press your lips together, giving Spencer one last look before turning away, nodding. The older man leads you out into the hall, followed by a blonde woman with kind but cautious eyes, the scowler, and the man who called off the others when you entered. The door shuts behind you, and the four follow you wordlessly to the end of the hallway.

They seem to appreciate the privacy, gathering around you and going through the introductions: Agents Gideon, Hotchner, Morgan, and JJ.

“How long have you known Dr. Reid?” Gideon asks. His stance is relaxed, but the facade is easy to see through, evident in the set of his shoulders and the features pulled a little too tight.

“Since we were kids,” you say. “We had a fight before he left. I haven’t talked to him since…since he came here. He told me he didn’t get the BAU job. He told me…” You trail off.

Spencer did make it. He latched onto his dream, and you weren’t there to see it. He’d made it, and he lied.

You spent most of your life listening to stories about the infamous BAU; it was Spencer’s dream, and you were just as invested in it as him. When they showed interest, you were ecstatic, but as the weeks crawled by, Spencer pulled away more and more until the day he told you he didn’t get the job; until the day you came home from college to find him long gone.

It was the lying that cut the deepest. You told him everything, but he hadn’t told you this.

“So, you knew Reid as a kid?” Morgan asks.

You nod. “We were neighbors our whole lives.”

“What was he like? Did you two just geek out all the time?” He asks. You scoff, shaking your head with a smile.

“Spencer geeked out, for the most part. I listened. He says a lot of interesting stuff. Pretty sure I learned more from him than in college,” you say. Both Morgan and JJ’s lips curl up, and even Hotchner has the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Not Gideon, though. He looks uneasy, unsettled.

“I’m getting more coffee,” he says, turning away and leaving without waiting for a response. Your brows pull together, and you look between Morgan and JJ.

“Give it to me straight. What’s wrong with him, and what do we need to do?”

Morgan’s brows lift for a beat before he nods.

“From what the kid’s told us, he hasn’t been using consistently. He claims it was a one-time thing that put him in here. I don’t know if I believe him, but I’ve seen addicts before. He’s been hiding withdrawals and cravings from us,” he says, features twisting.

“He nearly OD’d,” JJ says. “He spent all of yesterday hallucinating, saying your name. Garcia’s been running your name through every database to try and find out who you are. We thought it had something to do with Tobias Hankel, but…” She gives you a thin-lipped smile.

“For now, they keep him monitored until he’s stable enough to go home. Supervision for a while by us. We’ll decide whether or not he needs to be put in a rehab facility. Hopefully, that’s not the case, but things like this are a slippery slope.”

You close your eyes, bringing a hand to your head and threading your fingers through the chunks of hair, tugging for a moment before letting your hand drop and opening your eyes.

“Okay,” you say.

Hotchner, JJ, and Morgan exchange a look.

“Y/N-” Hotchner begins.

“I know what you’re thinking,” you say. “You think you’re more equipped to handle a situation like this. And you probably are. But _I’m_ more equipped to handle Spencer Reid.”

“I won’t leave Reid in the hands of a stranger,” Hotchner says.

“I’m not a stranger,” you snap. It definitely isn’t smart to be snippy with a decorated member of the FBI who has, most likely, killed more people than you could ever guess, but Spencer is lying in a hospital bed, and things will never be the same, and you’re in the mood for chaos.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Morgan says. “Reid isn’t in the clear yet.”

As if on cue, the blonde from before pokes her head out Spencer’s door, scanning the hall. Her gaze lands on you, and she smiles, waving a hand for you. You look between the three agents before you once before stepping between them and heading to meet the woman in the doorway.

“He’s asking for you,” she says.

“Is he lucid?”

“He comes in and out,” she says. You nod, and the woman puts a hand on your shoulder, giving a sympathetic smile. You give what you hope is something similar in return.

Spencer’s eyes snap open at your voices, gaze less wild and more focused than it was a few minutes ago. Spencer is here, at least for now. Really here.

“This is not a hallucinate,” he says. Not a question, but a statement.

“No,” you say, “it’s not.”

“We’ll give you two a minute,” says someone behind you.

“We’ll be right outside if you need anything,” says the blonde near the door. You nod, not pulling your attention from Spencer.

The room empties quickly, the door cracked behind them. Not completely shut, as they don’t completely trust you. You’d bet your entire savings - albeit not much - that they’re out in that hall right now fact-checking everything you’d told them, maybe even doing a background check.

Spencer pushes to a sitting position, wincing. You nearly reach out to stop him, but the ache in your chest presses deeper into your lungs, stilling you in place. It’s like you’ve had a cinder block on your chest for years and didn’t realize it until now. Now, you realize how hard it is to breathe.

Pushing past the churning emotions inside you, you cross the room and drop into the chair beside his bed, folding your hands in your lap.

“What are you doing here, Y/N?” He asks. You laugh humorlessly.

“It’s been four years, Spencer,” you say. “You could at least say hello first.”

His brow twitches.

“Hello. What are you doing here?”

“Your mom called. Said you were kidnapped a few weeks ago and were in the hospital now. She was frantic. Half of it wasn’t even coherent. It was the worst I’ve ever seen her,” you say. You don’t mean for the words to come out accusatory. It isn’t his fault; none of that is his fault. But you’re angry that he’s hurt and angry he didn’t tell you himself and above all, you’re angry you missed out on so much.

“My mom?” He asks, concern weaving itself into his words. You nod.

“I got in touch with the center when I landed. They got her calmed down. She’s alright, now.”

Spencer purses his lips, gaze blank. You can’t read him the way you used to, and you wonder whether it’s because you’ve forgotten or because there’s nothing to read. The first is far more painful to consider.

“So,” you say casually, “the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Something akin to shame flits across his features, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I hear you save a lot of lives,” you say.

Spencer winces like he’s been hit. You frown, shifting away from him, and he shakes his head.

“I lose too many for it to matter.”

“Lose too many?”

“I lose too many lives for it to matter.” His words are blunt and quick, cutting through you like a knife.

You’d love to argue it out with him, but you’re familiar enough with this state of mind to know he won’t budge an inch. He’s raw and angry and sad and ashamed, and there’s nothing you can do about that right here, right now.

So, you don’t argue. You don’t even acknowledge the words.

“Would it be inappropriate to ask how you’ve been?” You ask. His brows knit together for a moment before he meets your eyes.

“I’d say that’s fairly inappropriate.”

“Fairly?”

“Completely inappropriate,” he corrects. You smile, and the corners of his lips curve up ever so slightly.

“You need a haircut,” you say. You want a smile, a real one. Probably too much to ask, but you can’t help it.

“I’ll get right on that.”

“I see someone finally taught you sarcasm,” you quip. “All my years of educating never seemed to do the trick.”

A half-smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it gets close.

He doubles over, retching onto the blanket, and you lunge for the bucket, shoving it beneath his head. He grips it tightly, coughing up nothing, shoulders shaking. You resist the urge to reach out and rub that spot at the top of his spine, the one that always calmed him down. You don’t have the right to do that anymore.

“It’s going to stop. You know it’s going to stop.”

“72 hours at a minimum. The peak symptoms typically last a week. Though, that’s just for your typical opiate. We have no clue what the Dilaudid was cut with.”

“But, it _will_ stop.”

He closes his eyes.

There are a million things you want to say to him, and not nearly enough time.

“You should get some sleep.”

Spencer opens his eyes and meets your gaze, a hint of hesitation and uncertainty in his eyes.

“When are you flying out?” He asks. Translation: when are you leaving?

“I’m not.”

A mix of emotions flickers in his eyes, too quick to be decipherable.

“Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” you say gently. This time, he listens, settling back into the bed and shutting his eyes. It takes a few minutes for him to finally lose his grip on consciousness, body visibly relaxing, breathing evening out.

Once he’s asleep, you tug the blankets further up over him, giving yourself a moment to stare at him, take in all the new things. More defined features, a more filled build, a handsomeness that changed from the endearing, adorable Spencer you grew up with.

You brush the stray hairs off his forehead, not brave enough to do it while he’s awake.

Just a few years ago, you’d have done it without thinking. And when Spencer felt it, he’d glance your way, lips curling up in a tiny smile for the smallest, smallest of seconds before he looked back at whatever research or book or assignment he was lost in.

It’s the little things. Always the little things. The little things that fill your lungs and make it hard to breathe. The little things that you’ve missed more than anything.

You slip quietly out the door and into the hallway where the agents are waiting.

“Any discrepancies from what I told you?” You ask, arching your brows. Not angry or defensive, but curious. You want to see what they have to say, to know whether they trust you or not. You hope they do; you aren’t going anywhere.

You’re not sure when you made the decision to stay. You’d like to think it was when you found out about the impending recovery, but deep, deep down, you know you made up your mind the moment his mother had called. Spencer was in trouble, and that was all that had mattered.

It doesn’t matter that you haven’t spoken in years, or that he ripped both your hearts to pieces when he left. It doesn’t matter that you don’t really know him anymore. It doesn’t matter that he’s grown.

Spencer Reid will always be the twelve year old boy who was too smart for the other kids to understand, the one you’ve protected for over ten years. This, this hospital room, is no different from the playground, though the bullies are different, harder to see.

“I apologize for the formalities. In our line of work, trust doesn’t come easily,” Hotchner says. You let out a breath.

“Sorry. I just-I haven’t heard from Spencer in years, and I get a call out of the blue, from his mother, and find out that he’s…”

“I know how hard this must be for you,” Morgan says. You frown.

“Hard for _me_?” You mirror. It’s not hard for you. It’s hard for him, for Spencer. For them. Not you. You don’t get the luxury of feeling it. You shake your head. “I’m gonna head down to the cafeteria and get coffee. Anybody want anything?” It’s an apparent attempt at escape, and everyone knows it, letting you go without another word.

Moments later, you’re standing in the elevator, gripping the bars and tipping your head back against the metal wall.

This is it. FBI agents and Spencer in a hospital bed and four years of empty space between you.

You wish you were strong enough to walk out the front doors, to leave Spencer and whatever mess he’s gotten into behind, but instead, you walk past them and into the cafeteria, choking down a cup of black coffee.

As long as Spencer needs help, whether he wants it or not, you’ll be here. There was never really another option.


End file.
